


The Practice of Justice

by sangriasails



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BLM, Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protests, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, War Veteran Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangriasails/pseuds/sangriasails
Summary: “Trump said the only good Democrat is a dead Democrat. You wanna be a good Democrat, punk?” Bucky seethes.Bucky decidedly ignores Steve’s mutterings of “not a Democrat”, and continues to bandage his leg.A 21st century AU where Steve is a freelance illustrator and reckless protestor, and Bucky is the one-armed volunteer medic trying his best to keep Steve alive.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 187





	The Practice of Justice

The first time Bucky meets Steve is on a Monday. It is entirely unmemorable. There has just been protests against a pipeline built on reservation land, and while the protest started off peacefully, things unfortunately escalated. Bucky is bandaging a man’s hand quickly, eyes focused on his work as he deftly finishes with one arm. 

“There, good to go,” Bucky mutters. He raises his head and meets the injured man’s eyes, blinking twice. This small man has the bluest eyes, he thinks. He’s wearing a soft-looking flannel and skinny jeans. And he is truly tiny, collarbones and cheekbones glaringly visible. The small man smiles hesitantly and thanks Bucky, before disappearing into the crowd. 

Bucky moves onto the next injured protestor. 

After a long day of tending to minor wounds, Bucky collapses onto his couch with a sigh of relief. Today wasn't especially tiring, just long, and Bucky is always grateful for those days where the injuries are mainly minor. 

“Hello James,” he coos as his cat jumps on him. The warm weight is nice, and Bucky affectionately strokes his white fur. James purrs contentedly. Bucky rubs his shoulder empty-mindedly, feeling the phantom ache of a nonexistent arm. This tends to happen when he over-exerts himself, and he mentally reminds himself to pick up some frozen peas the next time he gets groceries.

As the skies darken, Bucky ponders dinner. He can cook, he supposes, but the effort of cooking with one arm is almost never worth it. Takeout it is, he thinks resignedly, and reaches for his phone. Bucky has his neighborhood Indian restaurant on speed dial, and well, it’s not like anyone is around to judge him. 

He sleeps deeply that night, exhaustion pulling him in. He sees his buddy get blown up, sees the blood on his arm, his hands, his entire body, and Bucky wakes up with a jolt. His helpful Fitbit tells him it’s 5AM. Like clockwork, Bucky swings his legs off the bed and begins his morning routine. There is no point in trying to sleep again, Bucky has tried that too many times only to get frustrated as he laid in bed with memories of his nightmare and nothing to do with his hand. 

No, waking is better. At least he can get his morning coffee fix. 

Becca says his coffee is the most hipster thing about him, even though he has a manbun and sleeps in a loft. Bucky swears by it. Hot coffee only reminds him of Iraq, of painful mornings waiting to be killed. He’s over it. 

Now, Bucky only drinks iced coffee, which is a luxury he didn’t have in the field. To be specific, he loves cold brew, but his waning bank account has forced him off his Starbucks addiction. One quick google search later, he started brewing his own cold brew. There’s something satisfying about the routine, and the certainty that he will be back the next day to drink his overnight-steeped coffee. Life in a bunker never had that kind of certainty.

He actually quite likes living in DC, Bucky thinks, even though he will always think of Brooklyn as home. In the early mornings, he gets to sit by the window and watch the sun rise. Sometimes he goes for a run, looping around the Basin until he can’t breathe, and the strain of running overrides his bad dreams. Today is a good day though, and Bucky peacefully sips his iced coffee and watches as the city comes alive. 

At 9AM sharp, Bucky walks into the cafe. He spots Sam in a corner, back to him. Sam knows Bucky likes to sit facing the door, and Bucky is reminded of how _good_ Sam is. 

“Hey,” he greets, sliding into the seat opposite Sam. He ignores the menu on the table, already knowing what he wants. Sam lights up when he sees Bucky, and he smiles warmly.

“Good to see you! How are you?” Sam asks. Before Bucky can reply, the waitress comes over. They ramble off their orders, one large breakfast platter for Bucky, and pancakes with sausages for Sam. The waitress, Darcy, according to her nametag, asks if they want coffee. Bucky declines with more force than necessary, causing Sam to snort. 

“Nothing for the hipster, one hot coffee with milk for me,” Sam replies with a charming smile. Darcy smiles back before leaving with the menus. 

Bucky is ready to defend his stance on hot coffee when Sam waves it off. “How was the pipeline protest?” Sam asks instead. 

Bucky shrugs and says, “it was okay. Pretty good actually, no major injuries. Just a lot of scrapes and bruises. Tiring though. Long day.” Sam just beams at him, pride evident on his face.

When Bucky first came back from his third tour with one arm missing, he was in a dark place. Part of him thought he should have died alongside his buddies instead of going through the pain of physical therapy. The other part of him was so grateful to be back that he cried when he saw his family again. Thankfully, Becca had insisted he see someone at the VA, and that was how Bucky met Sam Wilson, also known as the best person he’d ever known. 

Sam was the one who suggested Bucky volunteer as a medic. He had heard from his friend that some organization named SHIELD was looking for volunteers to help support protestors, especially when protests turned violent. While Bucky had been a sniper in all three tours, he was well-trained on field medicine and certainly knew enough to patch people up. Plus, he saw enough blood and death on the battlefield that nothing he sees as a medic could really traumatise him further.

He certainly wasn’t ready for a job, and being a volunteer gave him something to do besides pacing around in his loft. It felt good to be doing something useful even with one arm, and Bucky had dutifully shown up every time SHIELD asked. Most of it was minor first-aid, with only a couple worrying injuries. Many of the people they helped didn’t have insurance, so Bucky was the only medical care they could get. Of course, there are always injuries Bucky can't fix, and he always feels a sharp pang when he sends them onto ambulances, their faces creased with worries about the cost. Bucky knows SHIELD has some funds to cover hospital bills, but like all nonprofits, they're severely underfunded.

Darcy brings over two heaping plates of food, and a large mug of coffee for Sam. “Enjoy!” she says cheerily. 

They are quiet for a few moments as they dig in. Bucky knows he eats fast, with the etiquette of a goat, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s always been a fast and messy eater, and the Army had certainly only encouraged his bad behaviour. 

Sam tells him about his week, about updates at the VA, and his interactions with his neighbor Natasha. Bucky rolls his eyes as Sam rambles on about Natasha. 

“You ask her on a date yet?” Bucky interrupts. 

“What? No? Why would I do that?” Sam sputters. Bucky just laughs. Sam is so absurdly into Natasha. They’ve been living next to each other for three months now, and Sam has religiously talked about her every week over breakfast. Bucky can’t imagine anyone turning someone like Sam down.

“How about you? Any special person in your life?” Sam asks. Bucky frowns. It isn’t fair how easily Sam turns the question back to him. 

“Nah. Pretty hard dating with this,” Bucky says, gesturing to his missing arm. 

Sam just frowns, beginning his spiel that despite how ableist some people can be, Bucky will certainly find someone worthy of him, because he’s smart and kind and great blah blah.

As much as Bucky likes hearing compliments about himself, the thought of being single forever is a pretty realistic fear. Instead, he grins impishly and tries to distract Sam by throwing one of his fries into his mouth. 

Sam laughs, big and loud, and Bucky can’t help but smile back. Sam is a good friend, and Bucky vows to help him with the whole Natasha conundrum. Sam deserves all the good things in this world, Bucky thinks, chucking another fry at his head. 

\------

The second time Bucky meets Steve happens on a Friday. Bucky wakes up in the morning in a foul mood, his one hand trembling. Immediately, he knows it will be a bad day. He has half a mind to cancel on his volunteering shift, but stops himself in time. His therapist always suggests finding ways for him to occupy himself instead of wallowing on days when he really wants to, and Bucky knows if he doesn’t show up for his volunteering shift he’ll just be tossing and turning and getting progressively moodier in bed all day. Instead, he gulps down his iced coffee before leaving for the Basin. 

He has lost track of the number of laps he has done around the basin, but the sun is feeling increasingly hot on his back. He’s sweating profusely and feeling a little light-headed, but at least his hand has stopped trembling. He looks at his Fitbit: 9AM. He has been running for almost three hours. Bucky steps into the first bodega he can find, desperate for a cool bottle of water. He ends up dripping sweat onto the floor of the bodega as he rummages around for a dollar, and smiles apologetically at the clerk as he exits. The water feels blissful. Bucky finds a nice park bench to sit on, finishing the entire bottle in seconds. He’s looking around for a recycling bin when he hears a shout and a familiar thud of a body on the ground from an alley, and immediately runs to investigate.

He rounds the alley to see a large man with greasy hair and a white wife-beater holding the collar of a pitiful dog. The dog is struggling to breathe, jumping up and down. The large man pays the dog no mind, and Bucky sees a body on the ground. The small man looks vaguely familiar, his blonde hair messed up and an obvious cut on his face. He’s in a t-shirt too big for him, and pyjama shorts. He shudders, his body obviously in pain, before slowly getting up. He puts both of his skinny arms out, fists clenched, and says “I can do this all day”. His voice is much deeper than Bucky expects, but his trembling frame tells Bucky all he needs to know about the amount of pain the small man is in. Before the large man can swing another punch, Bucky is on him. He may only have one arm, but goddamn he used to be the best combat fighter in his unit, and the large man goes down easily. 

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Bucky snarls at the larger man on the ground. Panic floods his eyes, and the man immediately takes off running, leaving his dog behind. The dog’s wheezing, trying to recover from being choked. Bucky removes the collar from the dog and gives the mottled fur a few soothing strokes, before turning around to face the smaller man.

The smaller man looks livid. Or at least Bucky thinks so, it is a little hard to tell with the blood on his face. “I had him on the ropes,” he snaps, wiping away the trickling blood.

“Bullshit,” Bucky growls. “Look at you.” 

The smaller man’s eyes are a startling shade of blue, with the longest eyelashes. They are beautiful eyes, Bucky thinks. Unfortunately those eyes are still currently glaring right at Bucky. Bucky has definitely seen this man before.

“Have we met?” Bucky asks.

At that the small man pales a little. “Yeah,” he says, looking away. “You bandaged my hand at the Dakota Access pipeline protest”. Bucky’s brain clicks into place. A small part of him wonders if he only remembers Bucky because of his one arm. It’s pretty memorable, not many one-armed man walking around DC. 

He chooses to ignore that small part of him. 

“Ah,” he says unintelligently. “So you know I’m used to patching people up then. Can I take a look at you?” Bucky continues.

The smaller man still won’t look at him. He’s standing straight, legs apart. Fighting stance, Bucky’s brain supplements helpfully. It’s as if he’s expecting Bucky to hit him. 

“My name’s Bucky,” he offers. It’s a little like approaching a startled cat, Bucky thinks with amusement. Not very different from the time he convinced James to crawl out from under his couch. Bucky tries to relax his stance, even slouching down a little to appear smaller. 

“What’s your name?” Bucky continues. 

“Steve,” the little man mumbles after a pause. He seems embarrassed. “You can take a look, but nothing’s too bad,” Steve continues. 

Bucky nods encouragingly. “Maybe, but just to make me feel better?” He tilts his head and gives Steve a winning smile. It used to charm people’s pants right off at bars and clubs. But then again, he used to have two functioning arms. 

Steve doesn’t appear to notice the arm at all. He just sighs and gestures to Bucky to follow him. “I live upstairs,” he says, pointing to the apartment block next to them. “I have a first-aid kit. You can come up.”

“Great,” Bucky says. He grabs the still-trembling dog, falling into step. “I bet you have some injuries on your body too, maybe some broken ribs?”

“Nah,” Steve replies. “Just bruised.” 

Bucky gives Steve a sharp look. He doesn’t want to know how Steve knows the difference. 

“And my nose looks worse than it actually is. It’s not broken,” Steve continues. “And I can hold the dog if you want.” At that, Bucky outright glares at Steve. 

“It’s a twenty pound cocker spaniel,” Bucky growls. “I can handle it.” 

Steve just puts both his hands up in surrender. “I know, I saw you take down that man. I’m just being polite,” Steve says with a careful smile. Bucky’s indignant anger immediately fades. 

Steve’s apartment is up four flights of stairs. As soon as Steve opens the door, he hastily goes for his inhaler. Bucky just glares at Steve’s trembling back. God, this small man is also _asthmatic._

The cocker spaniel is much calmer now, and Bucky carefully puts it down. It immediately heads out to explore the apartment, tail wagging excitedly. Bucky also takes the chance to look around. Steve’s apartment is small but beautiful _,_ Bucky thinks. Much like the man, his brain unhelpfully supplements. There’s a small but overstuffed couch in the cramped studio with a small TV, and a bookshelf overflowing with books. Bucky recognizes some of them, books by Angela Davis, Ellen Wu, Moustafa Bayoumi, Simone de Beauvoir, Noam Chomsky, and more. There’s a blossoming plant by the window, and a couple picture frames adorning the wall. Steve’s bed is unmade, with half his comforter on the floor. It looks soft and warm and comfortable though, and Bucky tries to suppress images of them on the bed. Together. The kitchen area is clean but clearly used, with multiple plates drying on the rack and a couple spice bottles on the countertop. There is also a half-drunk cup of coffee. Bucky gives it a snooty glance—he can see it’s clearly lukewarm coffee.

Maybe he can inculcate Steve with some better taste in coffee. 

While Steve gets the first-aid kit from his bathroom, Bucky tries to discreetly peek at the picture frames. There’s a couple of Steve and an older woman who looks just like him, probably his mom, Bucky guesses. A couple of just the older woman herself, and finally one of Steve and a beautiful woman with thick red hair. Probably his girlfriend, Bucky thinks with a slight tinge of disappointment. She has cherry red lipstick on and her arm around Steve, and they look like a perfect fit. Bucky can’t even be upset, really, it makes sense that a beautiful guy like Steve has someone special in his life. 

As soon as Steve is back, Bucky starts with the nose. Steve is right, his nose isn’t broken, just pretty shaken. Bucky cleans it and puts pressure on it till it finally stops bleeding. He takes his time cleaning Steve’s face, marvelling at the delicate bone structure and beautiful eyes. 

“Take off your shirt,” Bucky instructs, after Steve’s face is clear of blood.

Steve blushes immediate, the color clear on his pale skin. Bucky wonders how deep the blush goes, and shakes his head clear of his thoughts. 

“Normally I get dinner first,” Steve wheezes, still red. Bucky chuckles.

“I can buy you dinner,” Bucky flashes his winning smile at Steve, delighted to see his blush deepen. 

Steve just harrumphs, before removing his shirt in one smooth movement. 

Bucky tries to avoid staring at Steve’s dusty pink nipples hardening, wanting to put his mouth on them and see Steve react. Instead, he gapes at the blossoming bruise on his chest. 

“Nothing’s broken, I promise,” Steve says. Bucky’s lips draw into a tight line. He goes straight for the fridge, finding the frozen ice pack and throwing it at Steve. It didn’t escape Bucky’s notice that there are several ice packs in the freezer. 

“Ice it.” Steve does as told, sinking into the couch, still clearly in pain.

“So,” Bucky says as he sits down next to Steve, the cocker spaniel immediately jumping into his lap. He pets the dirty fur, pleased with the dog’s warm weight. “You get into fights often?”

“Nope,” Steve says, popping the p. He smiles brightly at Bucky, who just continues looking at him sternly. “First time,” Steve lies. 

“Then why the multiple ice packs in the freezer?” Bucky asks.

Steve looks guilty for a moment. “I’m a hoarder?”

Bucky smacks Steve gently on the shoulder, before realizing what he’s done at Steve's grimace.

“Oh shit. Did I hurt your ribs?” Bucky asks, panic clear across his face.

“I’m not a precious doll about to break at any moment. That doesn’t hurt.” Steve's grimace quickly turns into a glare.

Bucky raises his hands up in the same mock-surrender pose. It takes a second, but Steve’s face slowly softens and Bucky sighs internally. 

“So what kinda name is Bucky?” Steve asks, a joking tilt in his voice. 

“Nuh-uh. You don’t get to change the topic like that. What happened? Why were you fighting a man twice your size?” Bucky asks. 

Steve’s expression immediately shutters and Bucky sighs again. Steve really is like James the cat, at least the first few weeks Bucky had James: skittish and easily angered. The solid weight of the cocker spaniel on him is good for his temper, and he fights down the urge to stomp out. Every time he thinks he’s getting through to Steve, it’s like taking one step forward and two steps back. 

Hell, Bucky had teenage sisters less temperamental than Steve. 

Steve seems to notice his internal monologue, and schools his expression back into a neutral stare. 

“I was drinking coffee this morning,” Steve begins. Warm, disgusting coffee, Bucky can’t help thinking.

“And I heard a bark. I looked out the window and saw this man kicking that dog,” Steve gestured towards the cocker spaniel now dozing off on Bucky’s lap, “and I just couldn’t sit and watch. So I went down and confronted him, and right as I had him on the ropes a nosy-ass man with the most hipster hair I’d ever seen in DC punched him for me and insisted on coming up to my apartment and seeing me half-naked. All without buying me dinner first,” Steve mock-gasps. 

Bucky gasps back. He replies: “Oh wow, whatever shall you do? A gorgeous man not only saved you from getting seriously injured in a fight, but was even concerned enough to check up on your injuries? How will you ever repay him?”

At that, Steve finally laughs. “What can I say,” he says, “guess I just wish I got some free food for taking my shirt off.” 

Bucky _wants._ Steve’s blue eyes are twinkling, and his open expression does something to Bucky’s chest. 

He forces himself to maintain a joking expression. “Alright alright”, he says. “Steve—whats your last name?—I can tell how desperate you are for free food. I’ll buy you a can of spaghetti-o’s, how about that?” 

“Rogers,” Steve replies with a light chuckle. . “And I was just kidding about dinner. I’m too humble for the great spaghetti-o’s, really they’re too good for me.”

“So what do you want to do with this?” Bucky gestures at the twenty pounds of warm deadweight on his lap. 

“Oh,” Steve thinks, biting his lower lip. Bucky’s eyes can’t help but stare. Steve’s lips are so pink and perfect, he thinks. “I can take care of it. I’ll make sure the dog goes to a better home, and in the meantime I think I have some food and stuff from my last dog,” Steve says. 

“Great,” Bucky replies. He pries the dog off his lap and gives Steve a mock salute. “I’ll best be going then,” he says, unhappily. If he doesn’t leave now, he’ll be late for his shift, and Bucky hates being late. 

Steve stands too, wincing at the pain. “Thanks Bucky. I always have trouble stopping my nose from bleeding myself.” 

“Anytime, Steve Rogers,” Bucky says. He has half a mind to ask Steve for his number, before remembering the beautiful woman in the picture of Steve. Bucky doubts a gorgeous guy like Steve is interested, anyhow, in a disabled vet like him. 

Bucky turns to leave, but not before winking salaciously at him. He can’t help it, the bashful smile on Steve’s face sticks with Bucky as he walks home, all thoughts of the horrible start to Friday forgotten. 

It is a climate protest today. Building on the back of the pipeline protests last week, Bucky sees signs denouncing fossil fuel on top of the many signs urging faith in science. The crowd is large and spread-out, but so far things have been very peaceful. Bucky helped with a few minor patch-ups earlier, but with the lack of injuries has been relocated to distributing water and snacks. The boredom gives his mind space to wander. It’s been a while since Bucky felt this way towards anyone—in fact, a small part of him has always wondered if his sex drive disappeared with his arm. It’s nice to daydream, Bucky thinks, of a Steve who smiles like that for him. 

Speaking of Steve, there is a familiar skinny man coming over for water. His blond hair is plastered to his face in sweat, and he’s carrying a huge sign that reads “Greed is destroying our Earth.” His right cheekbone is clearly swollen, and his nose is still bandaged with tape. He looks exhausted. Bucky frowns. 

Steve doesn’t seem to have noticed Bucky yet. He grabs a water from another volunteer, and turns to rest against the wall, laying his sign carefully next to him. 

Bucky walks up to him, seeing Steve’s eyes flicker with recognition. 

“Oh hey Bucky,” Steve waves brightly. Bucky frowns again. 

“What’re you doing here?” Bucky growls. 

Steve blinks at him. “What do you mean?” he asks cautiously. 

“I mean,” Bucky chides, “Your nose was bleeding this morning. Your face is still swollen. I don’t know how you’re even breathing and walking with the bruised ribs—you should be at home! Resting! Not marching here.”

“Aww, are you worried for me?” Steve teases. 

“Yes,” Bucky says. 

Steve looks a little taken aback, like he didn’t expect Bucky to say that. He learns back against the wall and takes a deep breath. 

“I’m not feeling the best,” Steve concedes. “But I can’t just not show up! This is important! Do you know how resistant the US government has been to climate change for decades now? Ignoring the science, letting marginalised communities suffer the consequences, I can’t just sit back and watch our planet get destroyed!” He sounds indignant.

“Yes, but you sitting this protest out because you’re injured isn’t going to cause the world to end,” Bucky snaps. 

Steve throws his hands up. “You don’t get it,” he says. “It does. I can show up. I’m able to stand and march, and so I need to.” 

Bucky is trying. He really is. But Steve is just _so_ annoying, and so self-righteously _wrong_ and Bucky still just wants Steve to go home and rest. 

“You can show up tomorrow,” he tries. “Isn’t it a three-day protest?” 

“Yes,” Steve says, “but—” 

“No buts. You shouldn’t be here in that state. Go home and rest,” Bucky interrupts. 

Steve just glares. 

Bucky glares back. 

“You don’t get it, do you?” Steve mutters, shaking his head. Without another word, he grabs his sign and stalks off. Not in the direction of his apartment, Bucky realizes. 

Bucky leans against the wall and tries to settle his heartbeat. 

And that is the third time Bucky meets Steve.

\------ 

He feels uneasy that night. Bucky knows the feeling too well. He fills up his automatic cat feeder and water dispenser, just in case. He bought them for moments like these, so at least he’s able to care for James when he can’t care for himself.

On Saturday, Bucky wakes up covered in sweat, feeling deeply unsettled. He grasps for his left arm fully expecting it to be there, but only feels thin air. He sees it is 5AM on his Fitbit, but he can’t help the tears threatening to swallow him. He shifts, burrowing himself into his blanket further, and starts crying. Bucky has always been an ugly crier, and his years in the military has just taught him to be silent at it. As the sun rises in DC, Bucky Barnes shakes silently in his bed, tears and snot dripping everywhere. 

He wakes again, and mutely checks his Fitbit. 6PM. Most of the day has passed, and the sun is low in the sky. James is moving around his bed, but Bucky doesn’t have enough energy to acknowledge him. He feels too nauseous for food, and instead grasps at the water bottle on his nightstand. He finishes the water in three huge gulps, before burrowing back into his blankets. He stares at the white wall of his loft for the longest time, feeling the sky darken and time pass. 

Sunday continues to be terrible. He’s still awake when it hits 5AM, and Bucky shifts his aimless glance from the white wall to the white ceiling. Even the thought of coffee does nothing for Bucky, and so he continues to lie on his bed. 

At noon, the sun is blinding. Bucky shifts to avoid looking right at it. Instead, he feels the crustiness of his sheets and pillows. They smell of tears and snot and sweat, and Bucky feels disgusting. He recognizes a dull sense of hunger, and realizes he hasn’t eaten for nearly two days. 

He can’t seem to find any motivation to leave his bed though, and so the staring contest with his ceiling continues. 

He wakes up with a jolt on Monday morning. He must have fallen asleep, he guesses, and looks at his Fitbit. 5AM, like clockwork. 

Bucky knows he needs to get out of bed. He can feel the hunger in him piecing at his abdomen. He feels a familiar ache in his back, the ache that he used to have when his bad days outnumbered his good days and he spent most of his time in bed. It’s the ache coming from too much time spent lying down, and Bucky sensibly knows he needs to get up. To eat, for one. And to drink water, he thinks, trying to force saliva down his sawdust throat. And there’s the issue of hygiene. Bucky can smell the sweat and tears and excrements accumulated from days in bed, and he feels disgusting. 

He still can’t find the energy to leave though. 

Bucky can also see the notifications pile up on his Fitbit. He likes it, not only because it tells him the time easily, but because he’s able to see notifications without having to pick up his phone. When he first came back, he had panic attacks just trying to respond to people. Now, with the Fitbit, he can just see things without feeling the pressure to respond. 

Bucky just looks up at the ceiling. His entire body feels so heavy. He tries to lift his left arm, willing his fingers with all his effort, before remembering that his left arm is gone. _Gone._ _Amputated._ He remembers Becca’s horror clear across her face when she first saw him. He flexes the fingers in his right hand, just to check he still at least has one functioning hand. 

He knows the thirst is going to affect him soon. He feels a pounding headache coming. With all his strength, he turns his body sideways so his right hand has access under his bed. He digs around for his emergency stash of water, perfectly placed there for days like these, when he doesn’t have enough energy to get up but doesn’t want to die of thirst either. 

“See”, Bucky announces to his empty apartment, “I take care of myself.” 

He downs the bottle of water. 

Bucky laughs humorlessly to himself, before flopping back to his back. 

Everything hurts. He knows he needs to get out of bed. His back _aches_. He needs to _eat._

Instead, Bucky’s eyes close and he drifts off into another nightmare. 

Tuesday. 5AM. Bucky’s eyes open. He glances down at his Fitbit. He smells. He wants to eat. He wants to shower. He wants to do laundry. He wants to find James and bury his nose into his white fur and apologize for never giving him enough attention. 

Instead, Bucky stares at the ceiling.

By 930AM, Sam Wilson grows restless in the cafe. It isn’t like Bucky to be late without explanation. He looks at his text history with Bucky, at the 10 unread messages, at the calls that don’t go through, and decides he has to do something. 

He knows Bucky gave him his key for emergencies only, but Sam is worried. He needs to make sure Bucky is okay, and not dying in a ditch somewhere. 

Which is how Sam comes to find Bucky lying in his bed at 10AM on Tuesday, an unmoving statue. 

Sam has gone through enough training to know that Bucky is having an episode. He can smell Bucky from the door, and he sees Bucky’s eyes glassed over. Bucky gives no indication that he realizes Sam is even in the apartment.

Sam grimaces, and goes to the kitchen. He hates seeing people like this, especially his friends. He thanks Bucky’s iced coffee addiction, because that means he has a full tray of ice in the freezer. Sam fills a bowl with ice and water from the sink. He peeks at the half-drunk cup of coffee on Bucky’s kitchen counter. It must have been days since Bucky left his bed, Sam guesses. The originally icy-cold coffee is now room temperature, and the condensation ring around it has evaporated. Sam sighs and washes the cup out. 

He checks for James, who seems to be doing just fine. Sam’s grateful that James has always been an independent cat, which is why Bucky likes him. 

Sam then carries his water bowl up to Bucky’s bed. He places it on the floor, and carefully removes the bullets from Bucky’s gun on the nightstand. He knows Bucky has knives somewhere, but Sam doesn’t want to search Bucky’s body when Bucky is deathly still like that.

He stands over Bucky, and unceremoniously dumps the entire bowl of iced water on Bucky’s face. 

That does it.

Bucky comes to with a gasp, searching for the gun and pointing it at Sam’s direction immediately. Sam waits calmly, thanking his stars that he was careful enough to remove Bucky’s bullets. 

Not that Sam thinks Bucky will shoot. It’s good for his anxiety though, knowing Bucky’s gun is empty. It’s easier to calmly wait for Bucky to get himself together this way, when the gun is inches from his face. 

Bucky’s eyes, initially wild and glassy, finally settle in comprehension. He jumps up in horror, throwing his gun onto the floor. 

“Oh my god. Sam. I’m so sorry,” Bucky bites out. His voice is hoarse and dusty, and Bucky looks distinctly unsettled. A wave of nausea hits him, and before Bucky can move, bile rises in his throat and he vomits onto his covers. 

“There, there,” Sam pats Bucky comfortingly on the back. He walks Bucky into the shower, with Bucky groaning at every step. His back hurts from days immobile in bed. Bucky gulps water straight from the faucet, before stepping into the shower. Sam kindly grabs a towel and a fresh change of clothes for Bucky, placing them outside the shower. 

Sam glances at the bed, but thinks better of cleaning it for Bucky. This is something Bucky needs to do himself, Sam knows. Instead, he picks through Bucky’s fridge and decides on making omelette and toast. 

When Bucky emerges from the shower, smelling much better and dripping all over the kitchen floor, Sam pushes over a steaming plate of eggs and toast. Bucky just looks embarrassed. Sam can tell Bucky is about to apologize, and raises a stern hand. 

“Don’t,” Sam says. “Just eat. And when you’re ready to talk about it, I’ll be here.” 

Bucky just nods and takes a seat. He starts off with small bites of the food, but once he decides his stomach isn’t going to push it back out, he shovels it into his mouth.

Sam busies himself making Bucky a cup of his favourite cold brew, and slides it over. Bucky’s eyes light up when he sees the coffee.

“You’re a gift, Sam,” Bucky whispers, his voice still a little hoarse. “You’re a goddamn gift.” Sam just smiles back, patting Bucky gently on his back. 

Bucky finishes his breakfast and coffee in record time. As Sam continues to eat, Bucky prepares himself. He tells Sam what happened, his nightmares and memories blending into reality, his inability to leave his bed, and his fatigue. Sam nods, carefully chewing. 

“Please call me next time?” Sam asks. He looks straight into Bucky’s eyes, seeing the shame, the guilt, and the self-disgust. 

Bucky just looks down. 

“Bucky. Please. I can’t say I know what you’re going through exactly, but I have an idea. I did my tours, I was stuck in bed for days. I only got through because I had friends who pulled me back to reality every time. Promise me you’ll call me next time this happens,” Sam continues. 

Bucky still isn't meeting his eyes. 

"I mean it, Bucky. It doesn't even have to be me. Not that you have anything to be ashamed of, but you need to call someone. Even Becca. Okay?" Sam tries again. 

“Okay,” Bucky mumbles. Sam can feel the shame emanating off him, but he also knows Bucky doesn’t break promises. Satisfied that Bucky is clean, fed, and hydrated, Sam decides to leave Bucky alone. This is something Bucky needs to work through himself.

Sam encourages Bucky to call his therapist today, before leaving.

Bucky stares at his silent white loft for a moment. Without allowing his brain to think too much, he jumps into action. Most of it is muscle memory, but it’s enough to get him through. 

Bucky considers throwing his sheets away and getting new sheets, but he knows he doesn’t have enough money to waste like that. He bundles his bedding up into one disgusting ball, before tossing it into his washer. He adds an excessive amount of soap before letting it run on the hottest longest cycle. He finds his bullets on the ground, realizing Sam must have removed them. He lets the shame wash over him as he puts the bullets back, before stuffing the gun into his bedside drawers. Out of sight. Bucky then proceeds to wash the dishes in the kitchen, and wipe down the kitchen counter. He opens all his windows wide open, and breathes in the fresh air. 

He’s still alive. Still there. And successfully out of bed. 

Before he can chicken out, Bucky grabs his phone and scrolls through his notifications. There are 10 texts from the volunteer liaison at SHIELD. 

_Clint Barton: bucky, you free next week?? got a ICE protest Mon-Weds._

_Clint Barton: it’s mon to weds but you can come any day you’re free. we hear it’s gonna be quite a big protest so the more people to help the better_

_Clint Barton: starts at 10AM but goes till maybe 8-9PM. Lmk_

_Clint Barton: bucky?_

_Clint Barton: you ok?_

_Clint Barton: ok im getting kinda worried ehre_

_Clint Barton: here_

_Clint Barton: text me back when you see this ok_

_Clint Barton: dude i just called and no one picked up?_

_Clint Barton: buckyyyyyyyyy_

Shit, Bucky thinks. He hates making people worry about him. There’s thankfully nothing from his sister, except an old Star Wars meme that she doesn’t expect an answer too. Still, he types a half-hearted “lmao” to her before calling Clint. 

“Bucky! How are you?” Clint sounds worried. 

“I’m fine, sorry my phone hasn’t been working the past couple of days,” Bucky lies. “I can come in today though, text me the address?”

“If you’re sure,” Clint sounds uncertain. 

“I’m sure. It’s really boring at home,” Bucky confesses.

“Ok,” Clint agrees. He sounds a thousand miles away, and Bucky knows he’s probably already at the protest. “I’ll text you,” Clint says before he hangs up. 

His phone pings immediately. Bucky tugs a hairbrush through his mottled hair, tying it into a low bun. He finds James and presses apologetic kisses into his white fur, before heading downtown.

Clint was right, Bucky thinks. The ICE protest drew in a huge crowd. While it is mostly peaceful, the huge number of people means many accidental injuries, and Bucky is kept busy the entire day. 

It’s nice, he thinks, going through the routine of cleaning a wound with saline. He feels almost like a person again. 

He gets a twenty minute break for dinner, and runs to a nearby kebab shop. He stands by the shop and devours his kebab. Seeing he has some time left, he strolls around the crowd in front of Freedom Plaza. He eyes their signs and the many cops sectioning them off. The cops are dressed, as always, in full military garb, and Bucky rolls his eyes. He remembers days in Iraq where he barely had the same protection these cops handling peaceful chants do. 

There is a commotion in the middle, and Bucky approaches curiously. During a lull in chanting, a cop has apparently said something heinous, because suddenly people near him were retreating. All except for a skinny guy with blonde hair and a huge sign that reads “No ban. No wall. Sanctuary for All”. The blonde guy marches determinedly towards the cop, and yells something angrily in response. 

Before Bucky can blink, the cop has shoved the blonde guy—Steve, Bucky thinks weakly—and he goes down head-first. Bucky runs towards him, not thinking twice.

He’s glad to see other protestors pulling him up, and away from the angry cop who looks ready to hurt Steve further. Bucky drags Steve off a stranger, pointing to the red cross on his arm. He slings his working arm around Steve’s shoulder, and walks him to the sidewalk. Steve is mumbling protests, but Bucky steadfastly ignores him. 

He brings Steve back to their medical station, and immediately starts the concussion test. He saw Steve’s head hit the ground, and his unfocused eyes spell trouble. He tells Steve as much. 

“What do you mean it’s fine? I can call you an Uber to the hospital,” Bucky says. 

“No, Bucky, M’fine.” 

Bucky bristles, and is just about a launch into a lecture when Clint appears. 

“Ouch, Steve. What did you do?” Clint asks, eyebrows drawn together in worry. Bucky is so worried that the fact that Clint and Steve apparently know each other goes completely over his head. 

“M’fine,” Steve insists. Bucky asks Steve to wait a little longer in the while plastic chair they have for patients, before pulling Clint aside. He updates Clint on the possible concussion. 

“Yeah,” Clint says tiredly. “Steve doesn’t have insurance. He won’t want to go to the hospital just over a light concussion.” 

“Light?” Bucky exclaims. 

“Yeah.” Clint rubs his forehead. “He’s not nauseous, he didn’t black out, his memory is intact, so he’s unlikely to have internal bleeding.” 

“But—”

“Bucky, we can’t force people who don’t have the money to go into medical debt,” he says gently. “All we can do is make sure they get the best possible treatment from us they can.”

Bucky frowns. Clint pats him on the shoulder absent-mindedly, before another medic drags him away. 

Bucky goes back to Steve, who is cradling his head and looking awful. 

“I’m not going to force you to go to the hospital,” Bucky starts. 

Steve looks up and smiles gratefully.

“However, you do need to check in with someone regularly just so you can make sure your symptoms don’t deteriorate. I’m worried for you. I think it’s probably ok right now if you don’t go to the hospital, but if you start throwing up or forgetting things...well, I know it’s expensive but if you have internal bleeding you could die,” Bucky says. 

Steve just nods slowly. “Okay”

“Okay. You have any friends or family nearby? I can drop you off,” Bucky offers. 

“Oh,” Steve chews his lips, and damn if Bucky’s eyes don't immediately focus on that. “I don’t really have any family, and Nat’s out of town this week,” he mutters. “There’s Tony, but I don’t really want to be around him when my head hurts. He normally exacerbates my headaches…” Steve trails off, looking worried. 

“You can stay with me if you want,” Bucky blurts out before he can think twice. “You can take my bed and I know all the symptoms to check for. You just need to stay for one night, just to make sure you don’t get worse.”

There is an awkward silence. Bucky regrets everything.

“Okay,” Steve says. His smile is blinding. 

Bucky regrets nothing. 

He tells Clint he’s leaving, and grabs his stuff. They walk a couple blocks to avoid the crowds before Bucky calls an Uber. He’s comfortable walking the entire way home, but he doesn’t really want Steve to move any more than necessary. Steve doesn’t look nauseous, just in pain, but Bucky worries. He doesn’t really have enough money for an Uber, per se, but he did just go almost three days without eating, so Bucky’s hoping that counts for something. 

“It’s a good thing I bring my essentials with me when I protest,” Steve says in the Uber. He taps at his blue backpack, worn and faded held together with badges supporting various causes. “I have my inhaler, medication, portable charger, snacks, and an extra change of clothes.” 

“Good,” Bucky replies. He’s not really paying attention, but freaking out internally as he remembers his freak-out this morning. How is he going to explain to Steve why his bedsheets are still in the washer? And why his apartment probably still smells like bile? 

Bucky hopes desperately the smell has cleared out. 

“It’s not much,” Bucky warns as he unlocks the door. Steve waves his concern away, pointing out how Bucky has already seen his place. 

Bucky tries to look at his apartment through Steve’s eyes. He already knows what Steve is going to think—what all his friends and family think. It’s too sterile. Bare-bones. Besides the essential furniture Becca and his mom moved in for him, he hasn’t added much. There is a white couch, small TV, and a small dining table for two. His bed is still stripped bare, and he has barely any personal possessions. Besides his army things carefully stowed away in a closet, and all of James’ cat things, his apartment essentially resembles a showroom. Except even showrooms have more character, his mother used to chide. 

Thankfully the smell has mostly faded. 

James takes this moment to make himself known. He meows and rubs his body against Steve’s legs, hungry for attention. 

“Oh, you have a cat!” Steve exclaims. 

“Yeah, his name is James,” Bucky says. “You can pick him up if you want, he likes it. I’m going to move some laundry.” 

He carefully checks his washed sheets, finding them clean and smelling like lavender. Bucky sighs in relief. He doesn’t really have any extra sheets, but he’s not going to let Steve sleep on soiled sheets either. He chucks them into the dryer, turning the heat to high. 

“Sorry, I washed my sheets this morning. They’ll be dry in an hour though,” Bucky says. “You can sit on my couch if you want.”

At that, Steve slumps into the couch. James immediately jumps into his lap, and purrs when Steve pets him. Steve looks exhausted, and Bucky feels his heart go out to him. Concussions, even non-severe concussions, feel nasty. 

“I’m ok,” Steve says, seeing Bucky’s worry. “I just feel so sleepy.”

“Yeah,” Bucky replies. “That’s pretty standard after a concussion. It’s ok to sleep, but I’ll probably want to wake you up every couple of hours just to check on your symptoms. Give my dryer an hour and I’ll let you get into bed?” 

“Mmok.” Steve says blearily. He presses a kiss into James’ fur. “Your cat is really sweet by the way. I love it when people give cats normal people names.”

“Have you eaten?” Bucky asks, changing the subject. 

Steve shakes his head.

“Do you want Indian food? There’s this great place nearby that delivers, or we can also get something else. What do you want?”

“Indian sounds perfect,” Steve says. He’s smiling a little, much to Bucky’s relief. 

“Guess I’m buying you dinner after all,” Bucky teases. “After all your complaining last time.” Steve does something with his fingers resembling a rude gesture, cheeks going red.

Bucky calls the restaurant, placing two of his usual orders. 

Steve looks amused when he’s done, and Bucky quirks a questioning eyebrow. 

“You have your local Indian restaurant on speed dial?” Steve teases. 

Bucky just looks straight at Steve. “It’s not like I have enough arms to cook,” he retorts. 

Steve just gapes at him, trying to see if he’s joking, before collapsing into laughter when Bucky finally smirks. 

“I can’t—I can’t believe you went there,” Steve chokes out. 

Steve looks so good laughing. Bucky wants to make Steve laugh all the time

“ _I’m_ unbelievable. Unbelievably gorgeous and funny,” Bucky drawls. 

“So you never did tell me, what kinda name is Bucky?” 

“It’s short for Buchanan. Which is my middle name. The full thing is James Buchanan Barnes, because my parents are history buffs and love remembering useless American presidents,” Bucky replies. 

He sees the exact moment it all clicks in Steve’s head.

“So your first name is James,” Steve asks flatly. 

“Yes, but everyone calls me Bucky.”

“James, as in James the cat,” he gestures at the white pile of fluff purring on his lap. 

“Well he’s named after me, not the other way round,” Bucky offers. 

“You named your cat after yourself?” Steve looks unimpressed.

“Well, no. I mean, yes, he’s named after me. But no, I didn’t name him. Becca did. She thought it would be hilarious. And well, James is kinda stubborn. Becca used to coo ‘James’ at him non-stop, and now he doesn’t really react well to other names,” Bucky says. He doesn’t mention how Becca named his cat James in the hopes that Bucky would remember to take care of himself. It hasn’t been working out great, but James is happy and healthy and that’s enough for Bucky. 

“Your…cat doesn’t react well to other names. Names. A concept he doesn’t even understand,” Steve questions. 

Bucky shrugs. “I try not to spend too much time thinking about it. But don’t call James anything else. I once tried to rename him Jeffrey, and he peed in my bed for a week straight.”

Steve chuckles. “Can you believe your owner named you after himself?” Steve mock-whispers into James’ ear. Of course, James, the traitor, just nuzzles Steve’s forehead lovingly in response. 

They move to the dining table when the food arrives. Steve tells Bucky about his job, the perils of freelance illustration. Steve dropped out of Art school as a sophomore, a pained look crossing his expression as he talks about it and Bucky vows not to ask, so full time work is difficult to come by. He mostly gets by with commissions and advertising work. Bucky tries to talk about himself, but finds surprisingly little. He avoids talking about his enlistment, but instead chats about Becca and James, the difficulties he had when he first got James, and the frustrations of finding the right type of cat litter. Steve laughs when he goes through his journey through the different types—“recycled paper was so terrible, my entire house smelled”. He learns that Steve doesn’t have any siblings, and that family is a touchy subject for Steve because he clams up when Bucky asks. 

Steve is delighted when Bucky mentions how he misses Brooklyn, and how DC doesn’t feel quite like home. Bucky learns that Steve also grew up in Brooklyn, and went to a high school a couple blocks away from his own high school. They talk about their favourite restaurants and memories from New York, and Bucky realizes how close they really were to each other, and how they barely missed each other. They both visited the same bodegas, pizza shops, and bagel places. He wonders if he ever saw Steve in the streets when they were younger, and wishes he knew Steve then. 

During a lull in conversation, Steve glance at his missing arm. He looks curious, like he wants to ask but knows better. 

“Lost it,” Bucky says. “In Iraq.” There’s not much more he wants to add. 

Steve nods, his expression grim but not pitious. It beats the pedantic sympathy Bucky’s used to. 

“Not gonna talk to me about how we’re all just working-class troops in imperialist armies?” Bucky teases. 

Steve frowns. “Do you want me to?” 

Bucky shrugs. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. There were many moments during my tour where things felt wrong. Spent some time reading into it when I came back.” The lies feel like lead in his mouth.

“Can’t say I wouldn’t have made the same choice to enlist again though. My family needed to eat. My dad passed away right after I graduated high school,” Bucky explains.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, or explain yourself in any way” Steve hesitates. 

“I want to,” Bucky says. "It's the truth." Another lie, Bucky thinks. 

At least he gets a little smile at that. 

“Thank you. And you should never worry about what anyone else has to say. People are constrained by their choices in a flawed system,” Steve says. 

Bucky hears the little ping of his dryer before he can reply. He shoos Steve into the shower with a fresh towel. Meanwhile, he tries to put his sheets back. It’s challenging with one arm, but Bucky’s used to it. He’s had months of practice. 

“Do you want a shirt to sleep in?” he calls into the shower. He hears a muffled yes, and quickly steps into the bathroom to drop off one of his shirts: a soft red nightshirt he loves. 

Steve looks adorable in it. It’s too long and baggy on him, but he looks soft and comfortable and Bucky wants to feel it. Him. 

“I can take the couch,” Steve says. Bucky recognizes the look in Steve’s eye. It’s stubborn and firm and Bucky just wants to carry Steve straight into his bed. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he says exasperatedly. “Didn’t you agree to take my bed earlier?” 

“Yeah but I was never going to actually do it. I can’t make you sleep on your own couch,” Steve asserts. 

Bucky turns his back to Steve, sets his alarm for 1AM, and flops onto the couch without another word. He feels Steve’s eyes on him and hears a small huff, before the small patterings of footsteps as Steve heads up for his bed. 

“Good night,” Steve says as he settles in. 

“Night,” Bucky replies, already half-asleep. 

1AM is an awful time, Bucky decides. Still, he pushes himself off his lumpy couch and up to his lofted bed. Steve is fast asleep, and Bucky can hear an adorable wheezing sound Steve is making in his sleep. Bucky gently shakes him awake. He quickly checks Steve’s symptoms—all fine. He watches Steve fall back into bed, his blonde hair glimmering in the moonlight.

It feels like a second has passed before his 3AM alarm starts vibrating. Bucky is up at record speed, and after making sure Steve is still doing fine, no memory loss or nausea, he quickly falls back asleep. 

For the first time in a while, Bucky is woken up at 5AM by his Fitbit. He glares at the vibrating watch for a while. His head is pounding, and he desperately needs coffee _now._

Steve first. After he’s sure that Steve is doing just as well as before, he begins his coffee routine. He has a new batch of cold brew today, and he tries to be quiet filtering his coffee. 

The first sip is always so good. Even months after his discovery of cold brew, Bucky’s always grateful when he has the first sip. He lets the caffeine wake him slowly. 

The whole night is surreal, he thinks. He has a strange man in his bed for the first time in, well, in a long time. Maybe Steve isn’t a strange man anymore though, they’ve already met three times.

Bucky knows better than to be hopeful. Which is why when Steve bounds down at 7AM, his expression resolute and completely different from the soft smile of last night, Bucky doesn’t let his expression flicker.

Steve thanks Bucky profusely, and says no to both his offers of coffee and breakfast. He passes Bucky his nightshirt, folded into a crisp square. 

“I really need to go,” Steve says, hands grasping his backpack. Bucky just gives Steve a half-hearted wave as he steps out. 

There is a moment of hesitation when Steve is outside his apartment. He looks like he’s ready to say something, but the moment passes, and Steve gives a small wave back before closing the door and disappearing. 

Bucky lumbers to the couch. He’s grateful to find James there, a friendly weight. He presses his forehead into the warm fur. 

Bucky wishes he asked Steve for his number. 

Bucky tries not to read too much into Steve’s quick exit. 

Instead, Bucky straps on his running shoes, and heads for the Basin. 

\------

Bucky’s therapist is a stern-looking woman in her thirties. Her name is Maria and she tolerates absolutely no nonsense from Bucky. 

Bucky likes her. 

He tells her about his little meltdown, and the weekend he spent in bed. They go over the exercises she had him try, behavioural nudges to get him out of bed during days like those, emergency protocols he should have set up, and Bucky flushes when he realizes he’s forgotten all of them. Maria doesn’t chide him, or express any overt emotion, but Bucky knows she’s disappointed. 

“You’re putting yourself in danger,” she warns. “If Sam didn’t come looking for you…”

“I would have gotten out of bed myself,” Bucky lies.

“And if you didn’t manage to?” Maria asks. 

Bucky has nothing to say in response. He dutifully does as she instructs, setting up emergency protocols on his phone. She gives him another pamphlet with detailed instructions on how to prevent such an episode, and Bucky quietly stuffs it into his pocket. 

“Is there anything else you want to share?” She asks. He shakes his head, and there is a moment of silence. 

She does that quite often, Bucky realizes. Just look at him waiting for him to continue speaking, almost as if she knows there’s more he hasn’t shared. 

“I also brought a guy home,” he continues. Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. 

“Not like that—he had a concussion and no one to go to,” Bucky corrects. He tells Maria about Steve, and how he met Steve initially when he was getting beat up and Bucky interfered, and how he saw Steve again at the protest that night. He leaves out his inappropriate feelings for Steve, but instead focuses on his frustration at how Steve doesn’t seem to care for himself. 

“He’s _so_ stupid,” Bucky complains. “His nose was still bandaged and his ribs were probably killing him, but he was there holding a gigantic sign and trying to march! And he doesn’t even see how stupid he’s being.”

“Hmm,” Maria ponders. “So what you’re saying is, you know a guy who constantly puts himself in needless danger and isn’t responsive to positive actions that could benefit his own well-being?” 

“Yes! That’s Steve exactly.” 

Maria gives him a pointed look. 

“Oh,” Bucky realizes. “You’re saying I do that too.”

Maria sighs. “I’ll see you next week Bucky. Please at least think about what I said. Try to see what you’re doing to yourself from someone else’s point of view. If you won’t let your friend go on like this, why are you letting yourself?” 

Bucky leaves her office with his head reeling. There are too many half-formed thoughts for him to process. He knows what he needs to do though.

“Hey Bucky!” Sam says, sounding surprised. Bucky doesn’t like calling very much, but he isn’t ready to talk to Sam in person. 

“Hey Sam,” Bucky replies. 

“It’s good to hear from you. How are you?” Sam asks.

“Not the best, but much better,” Bucky confesses. “Thanks, by the way. For Tuesday. For getting me out of bed, I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime, Buck.”

“I just talked to Maria, anyway she wants me to find someone to check in with regularly. It shouldn’t be too much work, just making sure I text you every two days. I know you’re really busy, so I don’t want to bother you too much, but—” Bucky mumbles. 

“Of course I’ll do it!” Sam interrupts. “So do I just need to make sure you’re texting me every two days? Or is there more?” 

“I’ll send you a pdf when I get home,” Bucky replies. He’s read the pdf before, but never felt the urge to actually ask anyone. He doesn’t really know who to ask besides Becca, and Bucky never wants to burden Becca like that. She’s already helped him too much. 

“Yeah looking forward to it. And it’s really no bother, Bucky,” Sam continues. “I gotta go, I have a session at the VA soon. Come by later if you’re free!” 

“Maybe,” Bucky says. “Bye Sam!” He hears the click and the ringing tone, and feels a weight lift off his chest.

\------

The next time he sees Steve is at another climate protest. Steve waves enthusiastically at him across the crowd. Bucky just gives him a half-hearted salute before looking away quickly. 

He’s taking his dinner at the same kebab place when he bumps into Steve again. Steve has a long gash straight across his arm.

“Jesus, Steve,” Bucky groans. He stuffs the kebab into his pocket, and wordlessly leads Steve to the medic station. 

He cleans and bandages Steve silently. He can feel Steve’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t want to speak first. 

Steve clears his throat, and Bucky looks up. 

“I just want to say thank you. Again. For last time. You didn’t have to wake up every two hours to check on me or let me sleep on your bed or even buy me dinner,” Steve says quietly. 

Bucky grunts. “Not a problem.”

“I mean it, Bucky. There aren’t many people I know out there who would have fought for a random guy and a dog in an alley, then demanded to tend to his injuries. Let alone someone willing to take a stranger in for the night just to check on his concussion,” Steve continues. 

“There aren’t many people I know stupid enough to march with bruised ribs and a bloody nose,” Bucky mutters. 

Steve’s eyes are earnest and there’s something flickering in them that Bucky can’t identify. 

“I owe you. Can I take you out to dinner?” 

Bucky’s heart startles at that. 

“Just to repay you. You did buy me dinner. It’s my turn,” Steve says with a small wink.

Ah, Bucky thinks. Not a date then. 

“Sure,” he says. “‘Bout time,” he adds cheekily. 

“How’s tomorrow night?” Steve asks. 

“Perfect.” Steve insists on texting himself from Bucky’s phone before he leaves.

“That way we both have each other’s number,” he explains with a grin. “No excuse not to show up tomorrow.” 

Bucky stares at his phone for a long time after Steve walks away. 

The next day finds Bucky urgently ransacking his closet. He knows he hasn’t bought new clothes in a while, but the true state of his abysmal closet has entirely escaped his notice till now. Desperately nervous, he calls Becca on speaker. 

“Bucky!” she greets cheerily. 

“Becca. What should I wea—I mean, what should a hypothetical guy wear if he’s going out to dinner with another hypothetical guy but it’s not a date. I thi—he thinks. What should a hypothetical guy wear to a hypothetical not-date?” he asks. 

“Is this hypothetical guy a one-armed hipster with a man-bun and a closet from 2015?” Becca teases. 

“Maybe,” Bucky sighs. 

“The black jeans. The one slightly ripped. They make you look thicccc. And the nice Oxford,” Becca lists. “Don’t wear those ugly running shoes”, she continues, steamrolling over Bucky’s noise of protests. “Wear the loafers. Or at least the white hipster sneakers you have.”

Bucky runs for his closet and begins pulling the listed items out. 

“Who is this not-date, Bucks? Is he cute?” Becca continues. 

“Yes,” Bucky groans. 

“Then why isn’t it a date-date?” Becca asks. 

“...I think he has a girlfriend,” Bucky hesitates.

“Awww,” Becca groans. “Don’t forget your leather jacket! At least then if he IS single he’ll definitely see what a catch you are.”

She steamrolls over his mutterings of being a one-armed catch.

“Tie your hair in a low man-bun, but let some strands loose near the front. That’ll make you look kinder and more approachable,” she says. 

Bucky grunts in response. 

“Don’t forget to shower! Bring some breath mints! Maybe even some condoms! You can never be too careful, y'know,” she prattles on. 

“Thanks Becca,” he replies before she can continue. “Gotta go, bye!” He ignores her meep of protest and ends the call, throwing his phone far away. Okay, he thinks. He takes a deep breath in, and out. He’s got this. 

The not-date goes surprisingly well. Steve’s in a soft blue button-up that brings out his eyes, and his typical skinny jeans. His hair is neatly styled off to a side, and he smells amazing, like a fresh blow of wind by the ocean. Bucky manages to control himself and keep his staring to a minimum. 

They go to a nice Russian restaurant, and Steve orders for them both. Conversation flows easily, and Bucky feels his stomach settle. 

It appears that the Army hasn’t taken all of his social skills. 

Bucky orders a steaming red cocktail aptly named “The Red Room Drink”. Steve blanches when Bucky asks if he’d like one. 

“I come here quite often,” Steve confesses. “My best friend works here. Every time she wants to get me drunk, she orders that for me.”

“Is she working here tonight?” Bucky asks. 

“Nah, her off day. I didn’t want her to be watching us from a corner. She’ll probably come up and ask you all sorts of uncomfortable questions too,” Steve laughs. 

Bucky’s happy to let Steve steer the conversation. Besides, Steve’s life is interesting. He talks about the odd commissions he’s been getting—”an animated sock!”—and his long-term projects. He’s drawing a comic series for a mysterious man on a supersoldier saving the US during WW2. 

“It’s interesting work,” Steve shrugs. “And it helps pay rent, so I can’t really complain.” 

Bucky understands that. He’s grateful for the VA for helping him apply for some veteran support, without which he could never have afforded his tiny loft. 

Steve chats a little more about his readings, and Bucky recognizes some of the authors he lists as the ones he saw in Steve’s apartment.

“Gee, Steve, do you ever read a book for fun?” he asks. 

Steve blushes a little. “Yeah,” he admits, “I finished Empire last week. I try to focus on non-fiction though, there’s just so much of me to learn still.” 

Bucky considers him for a moment. “Steve,” he asks, “what do you do for fun?”

Steve looks puzzled. “What do you mean? I like to keep myself updated on the news. There’s a couple of books I have lined up to read on class inequality. I attend protests for causes I believe in. that takes up quite a bit of time, between the organizing, planning, and making signs. Sometimes I dog sit for my neighbor downstairs. Oh, I also help out at the Soup Kitchen downtown.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “So what you’re saying is you spend all your time helping other people, and you basically leave yourself no leisure time,” he comments. 

“That’s not true,” Steve huffs. “I do fun things for myself!”

“Yeah? Like what?” 

“I...draw for fun,” Steve mumbles. “Oh, sometimes I go out with Nat.” 

Bucky holds up two fingers. “You do two fun things for yourself,” Bucky says.

“Yeah ok,” Steve groans. “I’m kinda boring,” he admits. 

“Why don’t you just take the time to find things you enjoy?” Bucky wonders. “It sounds like you’re just doing things for other people all the time.” 

Steve sighs a little and looks at Bucky resignedly. “When I was little,” he explains, “I was sick a lot. I used to watch documentaries all the time in bed, learning all about the ways society disenfranchises ordinary folks. I wanted to help, but I could barely get out of bed. Now that I’m better, and able to participate in all the rallies and marches, I have to because there are many like me who can’t for so many reasons. And I like helping people, Buck. I’ve been so lucky to have a somewhat stable income, a warm apartment, and clear lungs. I didn’t think I would get here as a kid, my family was dirt poor. I’m in a much better place now, but so many people aren’t, and I’m happy helping in any way I can.” 

Bucky desperately wants to hug Steve, to wrap his arms around the trembling body of a man who’s too good for him, but he resists the urge. 

Instead, he nods in understanding. He still thinks Steve should take care of himself more, but he isn’t going to voice that thought. 

At the end of the night, Bucky walks Steve the block back to his apartment. There is an awkward moment where Bucky almost thinks Steve is going to kiss him—Steve’s eyes are fixated on his lips—before Steve says “bye” in a tone two octaves higher than his normal voice and almost runs up the stairs. 

Bucky watches Steve’s retreating back. Maybe Steve’s just really bad at goodbyes, he reasons. That would certainly explain his awkward run-off at his house, and now here. 

Still, Bucky thinks the not-date went swimmingly well. He made Steve laugh several times, and there’s nothing he likes more than seeing Steve’s face light up like a neon sign, his cheeks flushing and his whole body vibrating with joy. 

\------

“No.” Bucky outright groans when he sees the next protester he has to treat. 

“Hi Buck,” Steve says cheerfully. 

“Why is it always you? Why are you always injured?” Bucky resists banging his head against the wall. 

Steve just shrugs. “A cop said—”

“Don’t ‘a cop said’ me,” Bucky growls. “You know damn well to stay clear of cops. And to ignore them if they do anything incendiary.”

“I can’t just ignore it,” Steve huffs. 

“I know,” Bucky resigns himself to cleaning Steve Rogers’ millionth and one wound. All because he wants to fight everyone. 

“He told me that women should be grabbed by the pussy. That they need to be disciplined,” Steve fumes. 

“He’s just baiting you. He wants you to react so he has a reason to arrest you, or god forbid, shoot you,” Bucky reminds him gently.

“That’s why _I_ have to speak up! I’m the least likely to get shot.” 

Bucky sighs again. They’ve had this argument many, many times. 

Steve’s reciprocal dinner turned into texting, and then more meals together. Bucky learned that Steve’s one guilty pleasure is historical films, especially WW2 films. During one of his weekends home, Bucky dug up his dad’s old collection of war films, and brought it back to his DC apartment. Becca was, understandably, delighted at Bucky finally adding what she called “signs of an actual human being living there” to his apartment. 

Steve was enraptured by the films, and Bucky successfully convinced Steve to take some time off from his volunteering to watch them with him. This led to many nights of Steve at his place, watching old war movies together. Bucky always made sure to maintain a platonic distance between them. The awkward not-kiss moment never seemed to surface again, much to Bucky’s disappointment. 

Still, he likes being Steve’s friend. Steve is funny and kind and smart and being around him helps Bucky momentarily forget about his nightmares and his missing arm. He still hasn’t told Steve any more about his tours, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind.

Steve always looks at Bucky like he matters, like he’s not just another unemployed undereducated disabled veteran living on the government’s money. 

And if all Bucky can get is Steve’s friendship, well, he’ll gladly take it. 

Which is why it’s all the more frustrating when Bucky sees Steve like that. Steve, who’s too good, too unaware of his own worth, too reckless, and totally going to get beaten up irreparably one day. Bucky can’t help but worry, and every cut on Steve’s skin just makes him want to wrap his arm around Steve and never let go. 

But he knows he can’t have that. Instead, he silently bandages Steve and sends him off, back into the crowds and the danger. 

\------

They’re lounging in Steve’s apartment one day, when Bucky remembers something. Steve is busy chopping vegetables in the kitchen, making them both curry. 

“Steve, what happened to the dog?” Bucky asks. 

“What dog?” 

“The cocker spaniel? The one you risked your life rescuing four floors down from here?” 

“Oh,” Steve frowns. “Clint took him.”

“Clint, like Clint Barton?” He sees Steve nod in the kitchen. 

“Oh right yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask. How do you know Clint?” Bucky asks. 

Steve smiles sheepishly. “He used to patch me up a fair bit too, before you started volunteering there. And I really only know him through Natasha at first.”

Bucky knows Natasha. He’s never met her, but he knows she is Steve’s closest friend. He knows that she’s Russian, has red hair, and is always trying to meddle in Steve’s life. In fact, she reminds him of Sam a little. 

He voices the thought to Steve, who cocks his head. 

“Sam? Natasha has a neighbour called Sam, any chance it’s the same guy?” 

“Oh my gosh,” Bucky jumps up. “Yes! Sam is always talking about his neighbor Natasha, how she’s gorgeous and has the most beautiful smile or whatever.” He’s too excited. 

“Is she single?” Bucky barrels on. 

“Very much so,” Steve smirks. “In fact, she may have said some very savoury things about Mr Sam herself.” 

“Oh my gosh,” Bucky continues. He knows he sounds like how Becca used to, when she was 15 and soooo into One Direction, but he doesn’t care. “We have to set them up.”

“Deal,” Steve says, wiping his hands on his apron. “Nat’s always trying to set me up on blind dates anyway, I’m sure she won’t mind me setting her up for once.” 

“Deal,” Bucky echoes, already running through ways to convince Sam to go on a blind date. It isn’t until a moment later that Steve’s words sink in.

“She sets you up on blind dates?” Bucky questions. 

“Yeah,” Steve blushes. “She says she’s tired of me being single and sad.” 

Huh, Bucky reevaluates. Steve’s single.

Bucky tries to temper the hope rising in him. Bucky has seen Steve’s rainbow badges and flags and tattoos, but somehow Bucky wouldn’t put it past Steve to just be a very good ally. 

They chat a little more about how to bring their friends together. Bucky tries to put all thoughts of Steve away, because Sam _deserves_ this, and Bucky is definitely going to try his best to get them together. 

As Bucky walks back to his apartment, rubbing a hand on his bulging belly—Steve is a really good cook—he can’t help but feel his mind wonder about Steve. 

Is there a possibility that Steve’s into men? He’s never mentioned anything, but then again, it’s none of Bucky’s business.

Still, Bucky hopes. 

\------

“Sam,” Bucky says as soon as he sits. He’s almost trembling in excitement. 

They’re at the same cafe, and Bucky rattles off his order when he sees Darcy approach. 

“Yes?” Sam prompts after she leaves with their menus. 

“Can I set you up on a blind date? I promise you’ll like her,” Bucky rushes out. 

Sam looks extremely amused. “Where is this coming from?” 

“Just. Trust me,” Bucky beseeches. 

“How do you know her?” Sam prods. 

“She’s a friend of a friend. I can’t tell you much more, but trust me when I say she’s perfect for you,” Bucky says. 

Two hours later, he plops down onto Steve’s couch with a satisfied grin. 

“Sam’s in,” he tells Steve. 

“Nat was a little more difficult,” Steve frowns, “but she’s in. I think. She did threaten me if I set her up with a ‘fool’ she’ll disembowel me but I’m 60% sure she’s just kidding.”

Bucky can’t help grinning at that. Natasha sounds like a character, and Bucky wonders if they could be friends. 

\------

The answer to that question, apparently, is yes. Sam and Natasha hit it off perfectly, just like Steve and Bucky thought they would. 

As a thank you to the friends who’d set them up, Sam and Natasha decided to have Steve and Bucky over for dinner. They are in Sam’s place, and Bucky is going on about Nat’s cooking skills for the tenth time. 

“You’re amazing,” Bucky says in awe. “That sweet potato? Best thing I’ve ever eaten. Please tell me you’re sticking around so we can do this more.” Bucky doesn’t even care how desperate he sounds, hell he’d date Nat himself if he could have more sweet potato, his very gay sexuality aside. 

Nat smiles at him. It’s a strangely tight smile, but there’s also an edge of warmth to it. “Noted, Barnes, I’ll certainly invite you over again,” she says in her perfect accentless English. 

“Do that,” Bucky groans. He sinks onto the couch next to Steve, who looks equally stuffed and ready for a post-dinner nap. Steve’s eyes are sparking in mirth though, and he leans over to congratulate Bucky on their successful matchmaking. 

Bucky doesn’t notice how close they’re sitting together until he sees Natasha staring at them. She gives him a loaded look. Bucky blinks, not entirely sure how to interpret that, but gingerly shifts away from Steve all the same.

It is only till later, when they’ve finished cleaning up and Steve has left, that Natasha approaches him again. 

“What do you want with Steve?” she asks. There is no emotion in her voice, but somehow Bucky still feels a little afraid. 

“What do you mean?” he wrinkles his eyebrows in confusion. 

“Don’t act stupid.”

Bucky just stares at Natasha. What is going on?

Natasha meets his eyes, and for a few moments they just look at each other. It’s almost like a middle-school staring contest, Bucky thinks. 

Bucky blinks and looks away, but not before seeing a flash of triumph in Natasha’s eyes. He scratches the back of his head, and awkwardly adds: “I’m really not too sure what you mean?” 

Natasha seems content to just look at Bucky. Eventually she seems to find what she’s looking for, and a genuine smile spreads across her face. Bucky almost jumps in shock at Nat looking...kind. 

“He’s gay,” she says simply. “Just thought you should know.”

“Ok?” Bucky doesn’t quite know what to do. One part of him is elated that there is even the slightest possibility of him and Steve, and the other is still fearful of Nat’s temperamental moods. 

“Do with that what you will,” Natasha adds meaningfully. “I’d be quick about it though. A guy like Steve won’t be single forever.” 

“Oh,” realization hits Bucky like a sack of rocks. 

“Yeah,” at that Natasha actually winks. “I like you Barnes, hope to see you around.” 

And so Bucky spends his entire walk home thinking about Steve. About Steve, who is apparently also gay. Steve, who could potentially be interested in Bucky. Steve, with his perfect pink lips and gorgeously warm laugh and his too-big heart. 

Bucky’s palms are sweaty and he’s shaking a little. 

Steve. 

Oh, who is Bucky kidding. He spends his entire night and all of next week thinking about Steve. 

Steve, _gay._

\------

All of it comes crashing down on Thursday. Bucky’s drinking his cold brew when he sees the video. It’s not a surprise per se, Bucky’s aware of the continued police brutality around him, but the callous look on the cop’s face as he _murders_ an innocent man. It is all too familiar, and Bucky resists the flashes of memories of his own platoon-mates doing the same. 

Bucky dry heaves into his toilet. 

His hand is shaking as he replays the video. Even in his throbbing brain, he feels a wave of determination. 

_When’s the protest?_ He texts Clint with shaky fingers. 

The reply comes seconds later. 

_Clint Barton: Tonight._

_Bucky Barnes: Until?_

_Clint Barton: Until justice is served._

The first night goes past in a blur. He spots Steve somewhere in the crowds, but there’s too much for him to do, and so he doesn’t get a chance to speak with Steve.

The second day goes past similarly. Bucky watches the peaceful chants, the marches, from the sidelines. He’s offering water, snacks, even directions. He’s patching minor injuries, focusing on helping as many people as he can.

The third night is when the police violence escalates. Bucky sees the tear gas canisters go off, hears the rubber bullets, the cries, the blood, and all of a sudden he’s back in Iraq. He’s frozen to the spot, even as more and more protestors come by needing medical aid. He knows he needs to help, he needs to move, but he can’t. 

He feels tears trickling down his eyes, but his body is rigid and glued to the wall. 

There are hoards of people running past him, trying to get to safety. The street is chaos, the air thick with fear and tension.

Bucky feels a gentle hand at his elbow, and finds himself staring at Steve’s face. His blue eyes are very round, and his eyebrows are folded into worried creases. 

His mouth is moving, but Bucky barely hears Steve’s voice. It sounds muffled, like Steve is across the street instead of standing right in front of Bucky. 

“Bucky? Bucky? Can you hear me?” Steve is seconds away from panicking.

Bucky’s eyes are glassy and blank. 

“Ok, ok,” Steve’s cursing to himself. He knows he needs to get Bucky out, but there is so much chaos all around them. He wraps an arm around Bucky, and thankfully Bucky follows him without too much fuss. Bucky’s skin is pale and sweaty, but Steve just grips his arm tighter. Steve guides Bucky around the corner, walking a few blocks until they’re at a quieter street. Steve sees a small coffee shop that looks empty from the outside, and gently guides Bucky in. 

They sit at a red plastic booth. Steve orders himself a cup of hot coffee, and Bucky hot chocolate. Steve almost laughs to himself at the absurdity of it all, but even as Bucky is going through a dissociative episode Steve remembers Bucky’s scoffs at his hot coffee. He doesn’t entirely know what Bucky has against hot coffee, but he’s made his disdain clear. 

Steve reaches for Bucky’s hand, gently holding it. He knows physical touch can sometimes help, and so he traces gentle patterns into Bucky’s warm, callused palm. 

And Steve waits. 

It feels like hours later, even though it was only a few minutes, when Bucky finally blinks twice, starting to recognize his surroundings. He sees Steve, and immediately flushes. 

Shame is clear across Bucky’s face, and it makes Steve frown. 

“Are you okay?” Steve asks softly.

“M’fine,” Bucky mumbles. He snatches his hand away, and seems to shrink into himself. 

“Buck, you don’t have to lie to me. Did something happen?” Steve presses. He reaches to rub comforting circles on Bucky’s back.

“M’fine,” Bucky insists, cheeks pink but face still a tinge too pale. Steve is instantly reminded of the other night, when he was concussed and Bucky was trying to get him to make the right choice. He smiles a little at the thought, and continues petting Bucky. 

“It’s me, Buck. I’m here for you,” Steve adds gently. Bucky can talk when he wants to, Steve just wants to make sure Bucky knows he’s going to be there when Bucky’s ready. 

They sit quietly for a few minutes. Steve sips his coffee, and watches Bucky shoot disparaging glances at his cup. 

“Di-did you get me hot coffee too?” Bucky hesitates. 

“Nah,” Steve chuckles. “I don’t know what you have against hot coffee but I’ve been around you enough to know you have some weird vendetta against it.” 

At that, Bucky’s face lit up. 

“Steven Grant Rogers, are you ready for some solid coffee wisdom?” Bucky asks solemnly. 

“Yes?” Steve tilts his head. 

“Hot coffee is trash. Cold brew is the only way to go,” Bucky whispers conspiratorially.

Steve lets Bucky’s words sink in. When they finally hit him, he can’t help but laugh. 

“Wh-ahaha-at?” Steve manages to choke out. 

Bucky frowns at him, as if disappointed. 

“Really, you just haven’t experienced the truth yet,” Bucky proclaims. 

“You can’t be serious,” Steve chuckles. 

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Bucky raises an eyebrow. 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Ok, you hipster. I believe you on this whole cold brew thing. But seriously, I got you some hot chocolate and it’s getting less hot as you sit there spewing absurdities about coffee.” 

Bucky looks torn between responding and drinking his hot chocolate for a minute, before shaking his head at Steve and reaching for his mug. 

“Thanks, Steve,” he says after a moment. 

“Of course,” Steve beams at Bucky. Color is quickly returning to Bucky’s face, and he looks almost normal again. There’s even a smidge of hot chocolate on Bucky’s upper lip. 

“Erm, Bucky, you have some hot chocolate on your lip…” Steve stammers. 

“Oh, where?” Bucky’s rubbing his upper lip now, managing to smudge the hot chocolate everywhere. “Is it gone now?” Bucky asks awkwardly. 

“Erm,” Steve falters. 

Really, it’s all Bucky’s fault. Looking the way he does should be a crime. Steve can’t tear his gaze away from Bucky’s pouty pink lips, and before he knows it, he’s reaching to touch it with his finger. He gently traces the edge of Bucky’s top lip, lifting the hot chocolate with his finger. 

Bucky goes stock-still. Steve abruptly withdraws his finger, feeling himself flush.

“Got all the chocolate,” he whispers. 

Something flickers in Bucky’s eyes that Steve can’t recognize. He’s gazing straight at Steve. 

“Can I kiss you?” Bucky whispers. 

Steve’s world is shaking, and he barely has enough sense to nod yes before Bucky’s lips are on his and.

Wow. 

Steve pulls Bucky into him, deepening the kiss, trying to remember every corner of Bucky’s mouth. 

It’s nothing like any of his previous kisses. Bucky kisses with single-minded determination, and Steve just about melts. 

When Steve finally breaks away, there is a small smile on Bucky’s face. 

“Is this ok?” he whispers. 

“Yes,” Steve breathes.

They end up at Bucky’s. 

Bucky is wrapped all around Steve. He knows it’s getting late, but he really doesn’t want to stop kissing Steve. Somehow, kissing Steve feels like the most important thing he has to do. 

When they finally pull away, there is an uncertain look on Steve’s face. 

“Are you ok with this?” Bucky hesitates. 

“What? Yes. Of course yes, Buck.” Steve nods vehemently.

It's another few minutes before Steve dares to ask. 

“Are _you_ sure? I’m sick quite a lot and I know not everyone finds this attractive,” Steve falters, biting his lip. He cursorily gestures at his body. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Bucky snorts. “You’re gorgeous. Whoever’s not attracted to that,” he gestures at all of Steve, “is absolutely blind.” 

Steve beams at him. Bucky wants Steve to look at him like that forever, but uncertainty is tickling at the edge of his mind. 

“Are _you_ sure?” he parrots. “I’m sure you can find someone better for you, someone with two arms…” 

Steve shuts him up with a gentle kiss. 

“I want you, Buck.” Steve’s eyes are warm and determined. 

“Ok,” Bucky relents, drawing Steve close again, pressing his lips to Steve’s soft blond hair. 

“That happens sometimes,” Bucky tries to explain. “I don’t know entirely why, but Sam suspects it’s PTSD. Too much noise, and I feel like I’m back in Iraq.”

Steve nods in assent, rubbing Bucky on the back. 

“I have days like these. Sometimes I get so bad I can’t even move out of bed. It feels like a part of me died in Iraq, and I don’t even know how to get it back,” Bucky mumbles, hiding his face against Steve’s. He’s shaking a little, but Steve’s grip on him only tightens, 

“That’s ok, Buck. I’ll be here for you anytime. We can wait it out together,” Steve promises. 

\------

The protests against police brutality and racism continue. Bucky’s there almost everyday now, except on days he has appointments at the VA, or with Maria. 

He’s exhausted. The police violence continues. He quickly learns how to treat burn wounds, wash out tear gas, and how to patch up different types of rubber bullet wounds. He’s learned to quiet his mind, as the number of injured protestors grew exponentially and he’s rushed from one patient to the other. He doesn’t see Steve for a few days, and is silently grateful. 

He knows Steve is caught up at work, but that he also wants to be there to protest. Bucky privately hopes Steve continues to be too busy with work, not wanting Steve to be exposed to the continued violence. 

The number of wounds he cannot treat grows. He sees a teenage girl on a sidewalk get shot by a rubber bullet from three feet, and watches in horror as torrents of blood pours out from her forehead. She collapses in pain, groceries in her hand slipping to the ground. 

Bucky’s there in a flash. He tries his best, but there’s not much he can do other than stop the bleeding as they wait for an ambulance. His stomach is tight, and bile is rising in his throat. 

As soon as he watches the girl get lifted into the ambulance, he dry-heaves onto the pavement. His head is spinning, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

The girl was just getting her groceries. He knows. And now her blood is all over his hand. 

He watches innocent people get handcuffed, forced to their knees without dignity, shoved into police cars without hesitation. Bucky doesn’t know what to do, so he tries his best to patch up the people he can. He’s seen more blood and pain in that week than he has the past three months. By the end of every night, Bucky’s hand is shaking in exhaustion. 

And then Bucky sees Steve. The police are shooting at protestors, trying to disperse them. There’s one man, who refuses to leave, continuing to kneel on the ground. 

Bucky sees a cop notice. The cop is pointing his gun at the kneeling man, but before the rubber bullet reaches him Steve is there, pushing him out of the way. 

Bucky looks in horror as the bullet grazes Steve’s legs. He’s out there in a flash, dragging Steve into the medic tent. He ignores Steve’s struggles, and forcefully pushes him onto the white plastic chair for patients. 

“Trump said the only good Democrat is a dead Democrat. You wanna be a good Democrat, punk?” Bucky seethes. 

Bucky decidedly ignores Steve’s mutterings of “not a Democrat”, and continues to bandage his leg. 

“You’re lucky the bullet only grazed your leg,” Bucky cleans the rest of Steve’s leg not unkindly. 

“I had to! They were shooting at an innocent man,” Steve snaps back. 

“And you would rather they shoot at you instead?” Bucky doesn’t mean to yell, but it comes out as a yell all the same. 

“Better me than him,” Steve retorts. 

Bucky doesn’t think he can take another minute of this. 

“Fine,” he snarls. “Go get yourself killed. See if I care.” 

With that, he ties the last knot of Steve’s bandage before stomping off. 

Steve doesn’t follow him. 

\------

Sam knows something is wrong the moment Bucky sits down. His brown hair is oily and hanging limply around his face, clearly needing a wash. His dark eye circles are stark against his pale skin, and he looks exhausted. 

He gives Bucky a concerned look, wanting him to speak first. 

“The protests,” Bucky tries to explain it away. 

Sam purses his lips. He knows it’s Steve. Nat was furious last night, ranting about how Bucky had hurt Steve. Sam heard Nat’s version of the whole story, and was unimpressed with the way both Bucky and Steve had acted.

“How’s Steve?” Sam asks after a minute. 

“Fine,” Bucky snarls. 

“What’s wrong?” Sam presses gently. 

“Have you ever met someone so...stupidly self-sacrificial? Someone who just puts himself in danger all the time without any care or concern about what other people might think?” Bucky fumes. 

“What happened?” Sam asks. 

“He put himself in the way of a bullet! A rubber bullet, but with that close of a range it would have torn a hole in his leg! And he just did it, without caring about his own safety!” Bucky says, gesturing furiously. 

Sam nods cautiously. 

“He could have lost his leg! And he just said he would do it again, if he had to protect someone! Isn’t that ridiculous?” Bucky continues. 

Sam wonders how he could best steer this conversation. He sighs, wishing he had his morning coffee before he met up with Bucky. 

Darcy is taking forever with their orders. 

“Bucky,” he begins after a moment, when Bucky seems to have calmed down a little. “How is what Steve is doing any different from what you did?” 

“What I did?” Bucky looks confused. 

Sam gestures at Bucky’s arm. “Didn’t you lose your arm trying to protect your squad from a grenade?”

“Well, yes, but it’s totally different”, Bucky says defensively. 

“How is it different?” 

Bucky glowers at him. 

“Steve’s not at war. It’s not a job. He doesn’t need to be risking his life.”

Sam leans forward. “Are you saying that if it wasn’t your job, you wouldn’t have done the same with a grenade next to you?” 

“No, but they were my squad. I can’t exactly just let them die,” Bucky scowls. 

“And if they weren’t your squad? If they were just strangers? Would you have let them die then?” Sam asks. 

“No,” Bucky grunts out. His eyebrows are scrunched together in anger, his one hand clenching into a fist. 

“So it’s not different,” Sam comments. 

Bucky grumbles under his breath for a minute, before looking back at Sam. 

“It is,” he asserts. 

“How?” Sam asks. 

Bucky’s silent. 

Darcy chooses that moment to pop up with their breakfast in hand. She cheerfully wishes them a good meal, before disappearing again. 

Sam takes the time to sip his coffee. He loves Bucky, he really does, but sometimes Bucky can also be such an _idiot._

And Sam, for all the endless patience he exudes, really does need his morning cup of caffeine before he can deal with all of Bucky’s idiocy. 

“What do I do?” Bucky’s eyes are pleading. “He makes me feel so worried.” 

Sam gently places his hand over Bucky’s. 

“There’s nothing you can do, Bucky,” he says gently. “You can’t change people, you can only learn to embrace them.”

“And if you don’t think you can,” Sam adds, “you need to let them go.” He gives Bucky a meaningful look. 

Bucky just sighs, before he starts shovelling his pancakes into his mouth. Sam rolls his eyes at that—Bucky really does have the manners of a goat sometimes. 

\------

Bucky’s staring at Steve’s door. He knows he should just knock, but something in him doesn’t feel ready. 

He’s just about to muster up the courage to reach for the door when it swings open. 

“Bucky?” Steve’s eyes are wide in surprise. 

“Hi,” Bucky smiles sheepishly. 

“What’re you doing just standing outside?” 

“Oh I was just about to knock… You look like you’re going somewhere,” Bucky realises. 

“I was just about to get some groceries. But that can wait, would you like to come in?” Steve steps in, and holds open the door for Bucky. 

“I came to apologize,” Bucky says quickly. “I talked to Sam, and I realize I shouldn’t judge you for what you want to do. Especially when what you want to do is so…” he trails off.

“So what?” Steve asks cheekily. 

“So morally righteous and absolutely good,” Bucky groans. He ignores Steve’s laughter, and continues: “It’s true, y’know. Even Sam thinks so, and Sam is about the best person I know.” 

“I forgive you,” Steve smiles gently at him, 

“So are we still…” Bucky falters again. It’s almost as if his social skills have evaporated overnight. 

“Still what?” Steve whispers, stepping closer. They’re only inches apart now, and Bucky can practically feel Steve’s warm breath on his cheek.

“Boyfriends?” Bucky hesitates. He knows they haven’t really talked about it, but Bucky wants it to be true. 

“Ok,” Steve grins. His lips are on Bucky’s, and Bucky feels a giant weight lifted off his chest. 

Bucky curls his fingers in Steve’s blonde hair, and groans softly into his ears: “You’re going to be the death of me, Rogers.” 

The smile Steve gives him makes everything seem worth it. 

\------

Steve’s there again. Bucky’s getting better at this, at ignoring Steve when he’s not in danger and not freaking out when he’s injured.

And that’s almost all the time, because Steve is _always_ injured.

When Steve miraculously makes it through another day unscathed, they tend to dinner at Bucky’s apartment. More nights than not, Steve sleeps over, his warm body perfectly fitting against Bucky’s own. 

And so when he sees Steve go down again, Bucky doesn’t freak out. He doesn’t scream or shout or cry. He’s there in an instant, checking Steve over. 

It’s immediately clear what happened. 

A cop car hit Steve, and something’s clearly broken. Steve isn’t crying, but his face is pale with pain. Bucky knows there’s nothing he can do about it, and instead he gingerly carries Steve to the medic tent.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers as they wait for an ambulance. 

“What for?” Bucky glances at Steve, a warm smile playing on his lips. 

“I don’t like how you always have to worry. When I get injured,” Steve looks forlorn. 

Bucky doesn’t bother replying, instead choosing to press a gentle kiss on Steve’s forehead. 

“Let me know how it goes, ok?” he asks. 

Steve nods, relief clear in his eyes. Bucky watches the ambulance go, his heart in a million pieces. Instead of going back to his apartment and letting the rest of the day disappear in bed, he grits his teeth and walks back to the medic tent.

There’re a million Steves out there, and Bucky’s not going to let any of them bleed. 

\------

Steve looks tiny in his hospital bed, Bucky thinks. Bucky doesn’t want to tell Steve now.

He doesn’t want to tell Steve ever. 

But he knows it’s weighing deep in his heart. Every time they kiss, a voice inside him reminds Bucky that he doesn’t deserve it. 

He hasn’t been honest with Steve. 

He needs to be.

Bucky sits down next to Steve, and gently takes Steve’s hand into his own. 

His blue eyes flicker open, and they soften as Steve recognizes Bucky. 

“Hi,” Steve smiles. 

“Hi, punk,” Bucky smiles back. 

“Back so soon?” Steve teases. 

Bucky presses a gentle kiss into Steve’s open palm. 

“I need to tell you something,” Bucky says. There’s a faint tremor in his voice.

“Ok.” Steve looks worried. 

Bucky takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to say it. He knows as soon as he says it, Steve won’t look at him like that anymore. He won’t be able to hold Steve’s hand anymore. Bucky can’t help himself, he selfishly reaches for another kiss before he has the strength to speak. 

His last kiss with Steve, Bucky thinks. 

“When I was deployed, I was young and stupid and didn’t know what I would be doing. But by my second tour, I knew. I knew what we were doing was wrong, I saw the way other soldiers in my platoon were treating civilians, but I didn’t leave,” Bucky says. He doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to see Steve’s disappointment. 

“I was too scared to. I didn’t know what my life would be like out of the Army. I didn’t know if I could have a life. I didn’t know what else I could be good for, and so I stayed for a third tour, even knowing all the terrible things we were doing,” Bucky continues. “I even half-convinced myself of all the propaganda we were fed, that somehow the people we were fighting for were less than. Less human.”

“I only left after the incident with my arm. Honorably discharged,” he finishes in almost a whisper. “I never had the courage to leave by myself.”

He chances a look at Steve’s face. Steve looks blank. 

“Why are you telling me this, Buck?” he asks. 

“I don’t know if I’m good enough for you,” Bucky whimpers. “I know you care, so much, about other people, but I didn’t.”

“Do you now?” Steve asks gently.

“What?” 

“Do you still believe the people you fought were less than?” 

“No,” Bucky shakes his head vehemently. “Of course not. But don’t you see? I was one of them. Like the cops who ran you over. I was just as bad.” Bucky squeezes his eyes shut then, willing the tears not to fall. 

“But you see what you did was wrong now, don’t you?” Steve asks. 

“Of course, but I still did it,” Bucky spat. “I still believed it.”

Steve falls silent. Bucky can hear the pounding sounds of his heartbeat, and feel nausea build in his stomach. 

“We all fuck up,” Steve begins. 

“But I fucked up way more than most people—” Bucky interjects. 

“We all fuck up, Buck,” Steve says firmly. His blue eyes are staring right at Bucky and as hard as Bucky tries, Bucky can’t look away. 

“Even the woke ones. Even the good ones. Even the ones who have been at this shit for years. The difference is, we work to own up to it. Every time. Stop the harm before it spreads. And you’re doing that,” Steve exacts. 

His gaze is strong, unwavering.

“Justice isn’t a thing we earn or a place we land, it’s a skill we practice¹,” Steve says. “And I’m happy to continue practicing with you, Bucky.”

Bucky’s silent. He doesn’t know what he’s done to earn this, to earn Steve, but he holds Steve’s hand tighter and vows to never let go. 

\------

Bucky wakes up like clockwork. It is 5AM, and he knows it’s going to be a bad weekend. He can feel his missing arm so viscerally, see his missing fingers clench and unclench, that his arm hurts. It hurts both sharp, like the pain of a bullet wound, and dull, like the ache of amputated muscles. 

Bucky hurts. 

He wants to turn back and cry. Burrow deep into his soft comforter, forget his slow descend into panic, and just disassociate from the pain. But he can’t help thinking of Steve’s face, etched in worry, eyes shining with compassion, and he imagines Steve in his position and him having to find Steve dead as a statue in bed, and Bucky knows he cannot just be. 

He has to take a deep breath before mustering all of his energy. And it truly takes everything he has to just lift his arm. He stares as his arm inches closer and closer to his phone, and feels a wave of relief when his fingers finally close around the cold steel. He has to really concentrate to stop his fingers from shaking, as he slowly dials Steve’s number. He’s shaking in cold sweat, and his body keeps telling him it can’t happen. 

It takes an eternity, but Bucky does it.

He feels breathless as he listens to the ringtone. 

“Hey Buck,” Steve’s voice is like honey. Like warm chocolate on a cold Brooklyn night, or the soft fur of James after a hard day. He sounds like warmth and love and Bucky, even as his body screams in agony and his eyes water, can’t help but feel a little less cold. 

“I...”

His tongue feels heavy. It sinks deep in his mouth and Bucky almost wonders how it hasn’t sunk through his throat. 

“Bucky?” Steve sounds concerned. 

“I need help,” Bucky manages to say. The words feel like lead, and he feels his entire body droop from the momentous effort. 

“I’ll be there soon, okay? Bucky, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He hears rustling, the sounds of clothes being put on, and then Steve is moving.. 

Bucky is at his limit. His arm goes loose immediately, his phone dropping on the ground. He’s shaking, crying, flashes of hot and cold burning across his body. His eyes are drooping and he’s falling into his nightmares, but right as he goes, he realizes.

He managed to ask for help.

He wants to be more than just alive. 

\------

They’re over at Steve’s apartment. Bucky privately prefers Steve’s apartment, with the homely touches of a person who’s not just alive, but living. He loves Steve’s plants, overstuffed couches, and threadbare quilts that smell like him. 

Steve still has one arm in a sling, the other arm struggling with a large steaming mug. Bucky resists glaring at his cast. Only the thought of Steve in pain manages to stop him, and instead Bucky makes to take Steve’s mug, placing it gingerly on the coffee table. 

“How’re you feeling?” he asks. 

Steve looks exhausted, but he cracks a smile nonetheless. 

“Never better,” he chirps. Bucky ignores Steve’s words, drawing him into a tight hug. He rests his head on Steve’s bony shoulder, breathing in the heady and intoxicating smell that is all Steve. He feels Steve’s arm go around him, and part of Bucky wishes time could stop at that very moment. 

“Why?” he asks. Bucky’s cradling Steve’s cast, frowning at the broken bones. 

Bucky’s tone is heavy, and he knows Steve is sensing all the questions he’s asking in that one word. 

Countless unsaid things pass between them in that moment. 

Steve gives him a tired smile. His eyes are watery, but his shoulder is set in determination. Stubbornness, as Bucky likes to call it. 

“Do you really not get it, Buck?” Steve asks, looking up at him as he settles into Bucky’s arm. 

Bucky doesn’t want to answer. 

“When something happens in the word that is wrong, I can’t try to move on with my life like it is right. The voice within me that says “this is not okay” is a direct call from the basic depth of my spirit. I have to pick it up, every time. Pick it up. And stay on the line until I figure out how to help. It’s the only way for anyone to stay connected to their soul²,” Steve whispers gently. His free arm is tracing patterns on Bucky’s thigh, and every movement sends shocks of electricity down Bucky’s body.

“And you’ll stay on the line forever?” Bucky’s voice cracks.

Steve smiles at him. It’s a gentle smile, tinged with sadness at the edges. It’s the most beautiful thing Bucky has ever seen. 

“Forever,” Steve confirms. 

“Then I’m with you till the end of the line,” Bucky says. His voice does not tremble this time. 

  
  
  


. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 1: @DrSamiSchalk. (2020, June 14). We all fuck up friends. Even the woke ones. Even the good ones. Even the ones who have been at this shit for years. The difference is, we work to own up to it. Every time. Stop the harm before it spreads. Justice isn’t a thing we earn or a place we land, it’s a skill we practice. [Tweet]. Retrieved from URL: https://twitter.com/DrSamiSchalk/status/1271915222425616384
> 
> 2: Wade, C. (2020). Where to Begin: A Small Book About Your Power to Create Big Change in Our Crazy World (pg 130). Atria Books.
> 
> This concludes my first ever fanfic! Comments are always appreciated <3


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